Words in the Dust

by Trent Reedy

  “Yes, I know.” He smiled at me. I had not expected this kind of happy reaction. “I know. You need new clothes. A few new dresses. Some shoes.” His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to look at me. “Maybe it is even time to get you a chadri.”

  Clearly Baba was thinking about other things for me. Maybe I should wait. I took a drink of water. Or maybe Meena was right and I had waited long enough.

  “Baba-jan,” I said. My stomach felt so twisted I worried I would lose my food. Maybe I should let it go. It would be enough just to learn from Meena.

  “What, Zulaikha?” said Baba.

  I lowered my eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Zulaikha. What troubles you? There’s nothing your baba can’t fix.”

  When I started talking next, I was surprised at how fast the words spilled out. “I’ve been meeting with a woman, a muallem who used to teach in Herat and who was friends with Madar-jan. She’s been teaching me to read and write. She has a friend who teaches at the university in Herat now. This friend has offered to let me live and study with her … that is, with your permission … until one day I’m ready to apply to the university.”

  It was all out. Nobody in the room moved. I risked a look at Baba to see if he had heard me. He dropped the chicken he’d been eating right into the rice bowl.

  I went on quickly so I wouldn’t lose him. “It wouldn’t cost anything. Meena said —”

  Baba’s eyes went wide. “Meena?” He half whispered the name. “Meena.” Did he know her? Maybe he remembered her from years ago.

  Too late to stop now. “It’s just that I have already learned a lot and —”

  “You aren’t going to Herat.” Baba spoke with his mouth packed full of chicken. He stared off into the distance for a moment. Finally, he shook his head and pointed at me with a scowl. “And if I hear about you meeting with that Meena woman again, I’ll beat you myself.”

  I bit my lower lip and twisted the towel in my lap. Nobody spoke.

  My father let out a little chuckle. “What would you need school for anyway? You’re already learning all you need at the school of Malehkah.” He turned to his wife. “Right?” But she did not smile back at him, or even look away as she usually did. When he saw that I didn’t smile either, he stopped laughing himself. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why do you waste my time with these stupid ideas?”

  That was his answer then. It was over. I should have known. Everybody went back to eating in silence. I ate a pinch of rice.

  What would my madar-jan have done? She never gave up on her studies even when the Taliban outlawed her books. It had been that important to her. And she’d made me promise to do all I could to learn as much as possible. I owed it to her, and to Meena, and to Zeynab. “Meena doesn’t think it’s stupid,” I said. “She has already arranged for my school and for a place with a respected Afghan woman. She said Madar-jan used to —”

  “I said no!” My father sprang to his feet. “You see?” he shouted. He pointed at Najib. “Remember this, Najibullah. This is what happens when you are too soft on women. The Americans let their women boss them around like they own everything. Then you offer your daughter some nice clothes and what does she do?” He turned to me. “She spits it back in your face and disrespects you in your own house!”

  Little baby Safia jolted awake at the sudden noise. Khalid looked surprised. He reached for Habib, who was crying, and led him out the back door by the hand.

  I stood up. “Please, Baba-jan —”

  “You call me jan? Like you hold me dear when you just told me what a stupid, backward Afghan I am?” He kicked the bowl of rice, scattering food across the room. “This is all because of ideas put in your head by that American whore!”

  I bit my lower lip. “I just want to learn. I just want a chance. I can make you proud of me, Baba —”

  “You’ll make me proud, all right! When you’re good and married off. But you’re not going to school, especially not in Herat! My word is final and I won’t —”

  “Let her go to the school.” Malehkah had taken the crying baby into the kitchen and come back. She stood up straight, a few paces behind my father.

  Baba’s nose wrinkled into a snarl. He did not look at his wife. “What did you say, Malehkah?”

  “If she wants to go to the school and the school is paid for, let her go. You’ve already lost one daughter. Do you want to lose —”

  Baba swung his arm back and struck Malehkah with the back of his big fist. She flew backward to the floor and landed hard, her head hitting the cement. My father took a step toward me, but before he could take another, Najib stood in front of me.

  “Baba, enough,” he said.

  My father stared with his mouth open. He held his hand up in front of his face, wet with his wife’s blood on his new gold rings. In a moment, tears fell.

  “I …” he whispered. “I loved Zeynab. I love …” He turned and looked at Malehkah. If the blood from her nose hadn’t bubbled when she breathed, I would have thought she was dead. He turned back to me and wiped at his tears, smearing blood on his face. Then he ran out the front door.

  Outside, the street door slammed shut. Najib faced me. He was shaking and his shoulders rose and fell in heavy breaths.

  “Go.” I motioned to the door. “Go with Baba. I’ll help Malehkah and the kids.”

  My brother nodded and left. I poured some water on my old dinner towel and then sat down next to Malehkah, wiping her forehead and then wiping the blood from her face. “Come on, Madar-jan. It’s okay. You’re safe now.” I propped her head up on my lap and smoothed her hair with my fingers.

  Khalid peeked in around the corner of the door from outside. “Is Baba still mad?”

  I looked up and held out my hand to him. “No, bacha. Everything’s okay. You and Habib come on inside now.” I gently cleaned the rest of Malehkah’s face and then hugged both boys when they crouched down beside me.

  Habib pointed to his mother. “Madar?”

  Tears rolled down Khalid’s face. How different he looked now from when he was angry and calling me hateful names. Now he was only helpless and scared. I hugged him again. He was growing and changing, and would only continue to do so, but he’d always be my little brother.

  Finally, Malehkah opened her eyes. She touched her nose and groaned in pain. Then she looked up at me and realized she was lying in my lap.

  “Help me to the kitchen,” she said. “Will you hand me Safia? She’ll be hungry.”

  “Bale, Madar,” I said. After I helped Malehkah settle down on the floor of the kitchen, I let the boys snuggle in close to her. Then I carefully picked up my tiny baby sister, who had cried herself to sleep. She opened her eyes and yawned with her little pink face. “It’s okay, Safia. You’re okay.” I gently eased her into Malehkah’s waiting arms.

  I watched as Malehkah put the little mouth to her breast. The baby drank and drank. Malehkah closed her eyes, her nose already crooked and swollen in shades of black and blue.

  “I’ve got to get dinner cleaned up,” she whispered. “We don’t want bugs.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Madar. Just rest. Please.”

  “Tashakor, Zulaikha,” she said.

  I turned to Khalid. “Khalid-jan, could you help Madar and me? Could you go out to the well and draw a bucket of water so that we can wash up from dinner?”

  Khalid rubbed his eyes and turned back to bury his face against his mother’s shoulder.

  “Khalid,” Malehkah said.

  “It’s okay, Madar. I’ll take care of it. All of you just rest.”

  I went out into the dark back courtyard and set my bucket down next to the well while I pulled up a full pail of water. I could hear them talking inside. The different and varied tones of my brothers. The muffled sound of Malehkah’s tired voice, trying to calm her children.

  I filled my bucket and took the water inside. While it heated on the stove, I helped get Habib and Khalid settled in to
sleep. Then there were dishes to clear and the floor to sweep. When I returned to the kitchen to wash the pots, I found Malehkah standing, wobbling on shaky feet.

  “Madar, please lie back down!” I hurried to her side, took her arm, and eased her back to the floor.

  “I thought I would help,” said Malehkah. She gently put her hand to her face and turned to me. “I’m glad you found Meena. That’s why I sent you on all those extra trips to the bazaar.”

  “You knew?” All my life it seemed that Malehkah complained about everything I did. It seemed impossible that she had been trying to help me go to my lessons all along. Though yesterday I would have said a lot of what had happened tonight was impossible. “Madar, if you knew I was studying with Meena, why did you —”

  “I’m just so dizzy. Head hurts.”

  When she was resting on the floor again, I put a damp towel over her forehead. “Tashakor, Madar-jan.”

  It took a few hours to wash, dry, and put away all the dishes. By the time I had done that and checked on the kids, Malehkah had fallen asleep. I sat down, leaning against the wall in the kitchen, where I stayed by her side through the long night.

  I jumped awake at the sound of the front house door squeaking on its bad hinge. I stood and looked through the little kitchen window. The dark sky was just beginning to take on the first hints of morning light. Soon the muezzin would call the faithful to prayer. I whispered to Malehkah, “Stay here.” As I moved to see who had come in, the door to the kitchen opened. Baba stood in the doorway with Najib right behind him. My father rubbed his knuckles against his rough, unshaven chin. He watched Malehkah and me for a long time.

  Najib gently squeezed his elbow. “Go ahead, Baba-jan. You can do it. It’s just like we talked about.”

  Baba nodded. He took one step into the kitchen. “I …” He swallowed and licked his lips. “I’ve been working this over in my mind. All night.” He slid his hands down his face. “Malehkah, please forgive me. I should not have hit you so hard.” My father stopped for a moment, and then went on. “Your mother, Zulaikha. You were too young to remember, but your mother loved her books. Always with her it was these old Afghan poets.” A small shudder went through him, and he bit his lower lip as he struggled to regain control of his wavering voice. “They … they killed her for those books.”

  “But the Taliban —”

  My father held up a hand. Malehkah tugged on my skirt from where she sat.

  “They killed her. They should have killed me. Or I should have stopped them.” A single tear rolled down my father’s cheek. He did not try to hide it. “I … I’ve been thinking. This school you’ve been talking about.” He shrugged. “They say the educated ones make all the money. But what do I know?” He waved his fingers in a circle in front of his face, as though he had much more to say but couldn’t squeeze out the words. As though he were struggling for air. “It’s a new Afghanistan, right? I’m just an illiterate welder. I just —”

  “I don’t want to go to Herat,” I said. It is what I had realized as I took care of Malehkah, the boys, and the baby during the night. My father frowned, and I continued. “I love my family too much. I can’t abandon them. I’m needed here.”

  “Zulaikha,” Malehkah said.

  Baba began, “Last night you said —”

  “I do want to go to school, Baba-jan. I want to learn. I need to go to school.” Before last night I could never have believed I would be saying this today. “But my family needs me too. The kids are small and Madar is overworked. I can’t abandon them.” I took a deep breath. “So I was hoping that I could go to school here in An Daral, at the school you helped build. I hear they’ve hired a very good teacher there.” I held my breath, waiting for my father’s reply, afraid and excited at the same time. But I did not look away from him.

  He was standing up straight with his arms out just a little, like he was trying to make himself look as big as he could. He stared at me with hard eyes, but I could see the tremor in his jaw. Then slowly he relaxed, and something like a smile spread on his face. “You’re a good girl, Zulaikha. More like your mother than you will ever know. And I would be honored for you to go to the school your baba built.”

  He held out his arms for a hug. I hesitated for a moment, but then felt Malehkah push me toward him. And no matter how I tried to stay angry with him, I felt myself relaxing into his embrace and resting my head against his chest. When we finally took a step apart, I looked up to my father again. “And, Baba-jan?” I asked.

  Baba put his hands on his hips. “What is it now?”

  “I think I do want a chadri.” I shrugged. “You know, so the boys will leave me alone on the way to school.”

  He nodded. “You certainly are growing up, Zulaikha.” My father smiled and wiped his brow before he left the room.

  Up on the roof, a few minutes after the morning prayer, footsteps crunched on the mudstone behind me. Malehkah looked at me with her nose swollen and dark bruises under her eyes.

  “Do you need something?” I asked.

  “This belonged to your mother. She had promised to teach me to read it, but …” She shrugged as she held out a worn brown leather-covered book. “I brought it up here that night, so the Taliban never found it. Anyway, she would want you to have it.”

  “Tashakor.” My voice was nearly a whisper and my hands shook as I accepted this last piece of my mother.

  Malehkah stared at me, but didn’t move. There were hundreds of questions I wanted to ask her, but somehow none of them seemed just right. It was silent for a long time. Finally, I had to ask, “Why did you —”

  “I was always hard on you … because I felt …” Malehkah swallowed. “I was married off like Zeynab when I was not much older than she was. I had to take care of someone else’s children and then my own. And when I looked at you, with the way your mouth used to be …” She touched her own mouth. “Your hopelessness reminded me too much of my life.”

  Downstairs, baby Safia cried. “There has to be …” Her voice shook. She reached out her hands and gestured at our compound before waving toward herself. “… has to be something better.” Malehkah turned and headed for the steps, but she stopped and faced me before she went down. Tears were in her eyes. The baby’s cry was turning to a wail. “Something better, Zulaikha.”

  When she was gone, I pulled my chador tighter around me against a cold breeze. Dark clouds had blown in and hovered over the eastern mountains. Winter was coming. It would rain soon. I crouched down and looked at the book Malehkah had given me, my mother’s book. I could read the faded silver lettering on the worn leather. Yusuf and Zulaikha.

  When I looked to the sky again, the rising sun burst through the cloud cover in splintering golden-white rays. I hoped it was a message from Allah. A sign to tell me things would get better. That somehow life could be happy — could be filled with something real and lasting and meaningful.

  A gentle breeze blew my hair back, and I smiled as I closed my eyes to let the sun warm my face. Then, with my finger, I wrote a single word in the dust: Inshallah.

  Dari, the Afghan dialect of Persian (Farsi), is one of the two official languages of Afghanistan. In the following pronunciation guide and glossary, the Afghan names and Dari words used in this novel have been spelled out phonetically in parentheses to guide English speakers to a more accurate understanding of the way the names and words sound. These phonetic spellings are based on a system advocated by the University of Nebraska at Omaha Center for Afghanistan Studies.

  Anwar

  Anwar

  Baba

  Baabaa

  Gulzoma

  Gulsooma

  Habib

  Habeeb

  Hajji Abdullah

  Haajee Abdulaah

  Khalid

  Kaleed

  Malehkah

  Malika

  Najibullah

  Najeebulah

  Tahir Abdullah

  Taahir Abdulaah

  Zeynab

&n
bsp; Zaiynab

  Zulaikha

  Zolaiykhaa

  Afghani (Afghaanee) – the Afghan unit of currency.

  Allahu Akbar (Alaahu Akbar) – an exclamation that means

  “Allah is the Greatest” or “Allah is Great!” Known as the takbir in Arabic, the phrase is used in both the call to prayer and the five daily ritual prayers.

  arusi (aroosee) – the second stage of an Afghan wedding, a combination of further ceremony and wedding reception, filled with food, dancing, music, and gifts

  baba (baabaa) – father

  bacha (baachaa) – boy

  baksheesh (bakhshish) – a gift

  bale (baalay) – an expression meaning “okay, good, yes”

  chador (chaadar) – a semicircular shawl, often worn as a head covering and held closed in front

  chadri (chaadaree) – a garment that some Muslim women wear in public. A long veil that rests on top of the head and extends below the knees, with a small mesh screen over the face for sight and breathing. Known in Arabic as a burqa.

  dastarkhan (dastarkhaan) – a large tablecloth spread out on the floor, where food is set out and meals are served

  dewana (daywaana) – crazy or foolish

  Eid (Eed) – an Arabic term meaning “festival”; in Islam, commonly used to refer to the holiday of Eid ul-Fitr, which celebrates the end of Ramadan, the holy month of fasting

  hajji (haajee) – a title of honor for a man who has made the Islamic pilgrimage (the hajj) to Mecca